


The Bitter End

by JantoPhi21



Series: Johnbastian In Space [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Infidelity, Johnlock Endgame, M/M, Rimming, Space AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8089162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoPhi21/pseuds/JantoPhi21
Summary: Sherlock could feel the walls rising. He expected John to be happy to see him, perhaps impressed that he was still alive; he’d even prepared himself for a hug or show of physical affection. He expected some scolding, but not much more than ‘a bit not good’ and then they’d laugh. But this; to find John living with, having a family with, one of the very men he’d been trying to save John from, and then for John to be angry that Sherlock hadn’t died; it felt as though John was telling him he’d rather Sherlock had died.





	1. Cloak and Dagger

“I’ve arranged a press conference to announce your resurrection in four days; I’ve even got your _friend_ , DI Lestrade, leading it, though he’s quite cross that he doesn’t yet know what he’s announcing,” Mycroft signed a stack of documents on his desk, while Sherlock was being fit for new clothes. “I can’t have you running amok until then, do you understand?”

“What about John Watson?” Sherlock was itching to return to his flat, to his John. It had been too long.

“Yes. Dr. Watson. He’s an interesting case,” Mycroft paused, knowing Sherlock would be irritated by what he had to say, so he started benignly, “He works at a clinic on the Tohg deck. He moved out of his flat a bit more than a year ago.”

Sherlock raised his head and narrowed his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“We don’t know where Dr. Watson currently resides. In fact, if it were not for his regular presence at the clinic, we wouldn’t know he existed at all. There is simply nothing registered when he transports, and aside from records pertaining to his medical practice, he otherwise does not exist. There have been no withdrawals from his accounts, no sightings of him outside of his clinic.”

Mycroft pulled a file from a drawer, “We’ve been looking into it for the last nine months and can find nothing. The only hint of any life outside the clinic was a nurse, who reported Dr. Watson showing up at the clinic late at night with another man in tow. According to all available records, this man does not exist, and even the cameras in the clinic did not show his face. And the images were not doctored after the fact; the camera itself has been programmed to not record this gentleman. The nurse recalls that he was blond, taller than the doctor, appeared to be quite athletic and heavily scarred.”

He handed the file to Sherlock. “See for yourself.”

Sherlock read it over. “Could be Moran. Possibly he brainwashed Doctor Watson?”

“Damnit, Sherlock! You have no evidence that such a man exists! I know you insist that Moriarty’s network all claim to have been taking orders from this mysterious Moran, why are you so sure it wasn’t a cover? A lie?” Mycroft had been over this hundreds of times with his own men. “And if Moran did exist, why would he choose my ship, of thousands, to come back to?”

“Perhaps because this was home,” said Sherlock, meeting his eyes, ”I’ll follow John after his next shift.”

“Perhaps you’ll succeed where my men have not; they may the best the Forces has to offer, but we both know the truly clever ones don’t join the forces, do they?” Mycroft quipped, referring to themselves. “Dr. Watson teleports directly to and from his office, typically using the command ‘Home’ which leaves, as I’ve said, no coordinates behind. Just don’t do anything drastic until the press conference.”

“Of course,” he scoffed.

-o-

John stretched. Time to go home. He hummed softly, looking forward to getting back to Seb and Phee. He went to the transporter only to find it blocked off and down. Shrugging, he knew he’d have to take the long way.

Sherlock stationed himself at a small booth not far from the clinic. He couldn’t resist peering in, just to see John with his own eyes. If possible, he’d grown even more stupidly sentimental over John in his absence. He’d done so well to keep his emotions in check before he’d died, but even now, just the sight of John swelled his affections to the surface.

When John finally left the clinic, Sherlock felt smug. How stupid of Mycroft not to think of something so simple. He deftly followed John; his disguise quite good if he was to admit it to himself, even so, John might noticed being followed by a stranger. But two years of taking down Moriarty's intergalactic web was not for naught. He saw John enter the nearest lift and smiled. How pathetically easy.

Once the doors were closed, he rushed to the lift and called it. He waited a few minutes for the lift to return and open its doors. “Take me to your previous destination.”

“I’m sorry. I have no previous destination,” the lift explained with a monotone voice. “Please choose your deck.”

“What deck did John Watson get off on?”

“I’m sorry. There has been no John Watson on this lift in 587 days,” the lift replied. “Please choose your deck.”

“Where did he go then?!” Sherlock asked, exasperated.

“He went nowhere,” the lift answered.

“What does that mean? Of course he went somewhere!”

“John Watson was on this lift 587 days ago. And then he ceased to be on the lift 587 days ago.” The lift explained. “Please choose your deck.”

“The highest deck you’ve got then!” Sherlock snarled. If it was Moran, and if this were home, he’d be rich. The most luxurious deck on the ship was the Sapphite deck; he’d have to start his hunt there.

-o-

John kissed Seb as he came in. “How was your day?”

“Good, good. Took Phee back to the office, gave her some really simple designs to toy with, while I’m working on the finishing touches of the DASR; think I might actually be able to install her in the ship in the next two months or so. But Phee, gave her what are essentially weapon building blocks, all holographic. She likes that they move with her touch; better than my stuff, which ignores her. Gotta say, she actually made the beginnings of a kick ass blade. I know it was probably just a coincidence, but I’m kind of fucking proud of it, and I saved it. When she gets older, I’ll print her a copy.”

Seb was having a good day, and wanted close to his doctor. “She’s asleep now; and even though it took you a bit to get home, we have time,” he winked.

John chuckled and pressed him up against the nearest wall. “Yeah?” he asked.

“Fuck, yes, Doc,” Seb moaned, capturing John in a heated kiss, wet, nipping at his lip. “She’s in our room, where’d you wanna go?”

“The garden?” He suggested. “Or I can take you right against the wall.”

“I’ll never make it to the garden,” Seb smirked against John’s lips. “You got a preference?” John might have topped a bit more than Seb overall, but generally, they mixed it up as much as they could. It was all spectacular, and neither one of them wanted to miss out.

“Naw. You wanna take me today?”

“Sounds fucking good. Want me to fold you against the wall, or over the sofa? Either way, it’s gonna be hard and fast; I’ve been craving you all damned day.” Seb admitted, nipping at John’s neck while he made his decision.

“You decide. Whatever you need, Seb.”

“Sofa, then. Too long since I’ve eaten you out,” He walked John back against the furniture, dropping to his knees. “Should open you up with my tongue, then fuck you, or fuck you, then clean you up with my tongue? Seb asked, then chuckled, “Or both?”

“Mm, both. I do like it when you clean me up with your tongue.”

Seb growled, “Oh fuck, yes. You’d better hold on.” He flipped John belly first against the back of the sofa, and pulled down John’s trousers and pants to his ankles. He slipped in between his legs, and went back to his knees. He pried John’s arse apart, using his wide hands to help hold John open, and blew a breeze of cold air against the pucker, watching it twitch. “Fucking perfect,” Seb delighted, and let his tongue circle the rim, letting his own mouth water, drenching John’s tight hole before beginning to slip the tip of his tongue in ever so gently.

John moaned, trying to keep the noise down. “God, yes Seb.”

Seb slipped the lube he’d hidden, just in case John were amenable, from the couch cushions. It was a nice flavoured slick, and he dribbled it down the cleft of John’s arse, hearing John’s gasp at the cool liquid dripping down him. Seb plunged in again, groaning against John’s arse, then slipping in one knuckle, then another from the other hand to work him open, to let his tongue sneak in, circling the tight rim, and letting it clench around his tongue. He kept one hand on John, burying his face in his arse, adoring the way John whimpered, whined and writhed against him, and with the other, he began to stroke his own cock, getting ready to fuck John senseless; to hear the man he craved cry out with pleasure, maybe even beg. It’d be _fantastic_.

“Seb, Seb,” John moaned, writhing against him. “God, please, fuck me.”

Seb stood up, pushing John over the sofa, where he had to hold himself up on the cushions. Seb started slowly, but John liked a bit of burn, and Seb was happy to provide it. He pressed against John, watching the man’s arse open wide, fluttering and twitching as it desperately tried to accommodate Seb’s girth. “So fucking pretty, the way you take me in. So fucking greedy,” Seb groaned.

“Sebastian,” moaned John, trying to relax underneath the delightful onslaught.

“Christ, _yes_ , the way you say my name,” Seb growled, and pressed as deeply into John as he could. He took a few careful, delicate thrusts, then began to fuck John relentlessly over the sofa. He dug his fingers into John’s hips, and groaned with delight when John’s toes no longer reached the ground, and he was entirely in control of John’s body, teetering over the back cushions of the sofa.

John loved the lack of control, of surrendering to Seb’s whims. He could lose his mind a bit here, and know that Seb would take care of him.

Seb was close, pulling John onto his cock as though nothing in the world could stop him. “Say it, John, my name, please, beg me,” Seb requested; he’d grown to love how John said his name.

“Sebastian, my Sebastian, God, please, fill me Seb.”

Seb throbbed inside of John, pulsing, aching, filling him deeply as he fucked hard with his final thrusts into John. “Love it, fuck, like sex the way you say my name,” Seb panted against John’s back. As his orgasm finally ebbed, he dropped to his knees.

John’s arse dribbled drip after drip of Seb’s come, and Seb was there, to lap up each taste. He circled John’s red, raw rim, and felt John’s arse pulse out spurts of come with each twitch. He lapped it up, burying his tongue in John’s arse to capture the rest of it. He pulled John’s arse apart and immersed himself, seeking out each and every taste of their coupling, groaning, growling, moaning against John’s loosened hole, and smirked as John’s hand came down to his cock, desperate seeking his own pleasure.

John mewled with pleasure, spilling over his hand and going limp underneath Seb.

Seb growled as he felt John come, then came around the sofa, to lap at John’s hand and cock, to clean every taste of him he could. It was the bitterness of sex and want, but Seb craved it all the same. He cleaned John’s cock, the come from his fingers, until he’d cleansed John as thoroughly as possible with his tongue.

Once he sat back, chest heaving, he began to laugh. “Been months since we’d gotten to do that; fuck, I needed it. Gonna need a shower; you wanna join me, or get some dinner?”

“Might have to carry me to the shower,” murmured John.

Seb scooped him in a quick motion, and snogged him thoroughly. “Shower, or bath?”

“Bath might be better right now.”

“I want to wash you, then eat you out again,” Seb groaned, “An enhancer’ll make it worth your while, if you don’t wanna get frustrated.

John groaned. "That'll be amazing." He rest his head against Seb's shoulder, content.

Seb carried him to the master bath, setting him in the tub while he drew the water. He fetched a glass of water and two enhancers, and between the two of them, they managed three more orgasms before Ophelia woke up two and a half hours later.

Seb was brushing his teeth, so John dried off and went to calm their daughter.

John changed her diaper and had her ready for feeding, knowing Seb would want to feed her while they ate supper.  

-o-

Sherlock stormed into Mycroft’s office, ignoring his brother as he rifled through the antiquated bookshelf. He pulled out a thick old dictionary, opening it up to find a variety of trackers and bugs.

“We’ve already tried that,” Mycroft didn’t look up from his work, “The transporter shorts then all out.”

Sherlock pocketed what he was looking for, slammed the book shut, and strode back out without a word. Mycroft rolled his eyes, but went back to plotting the economic collapse of a small planet that had far more influence than it ought.

Sherlock almost recruited help for this one; his very appearance might be enough to give him away, given how close he’d need to be to John for this attempt to work. This one took finesse, because he knew John didn’t wear his work cardigans home, so he’d have to plant the bug on either his person or billfold.

He’d need to be forgettable, not a patient, then; if John got too close, _well_ , he may not have been as clever as Sherlock, but even _he’d_ recognize the body of man he’d had laid bare before him more than once. A delivery boy? Wouldn’t get past his administrative staff. Unless… _yes_! If he were “replacing” a batch of recalled controlled substances, he’d have to see the doctor on duty, and he’d have an excuse to see John’s controlled substance license. He could place the tracker on the license, which John would then place in his billfold, and lead Sherlock straight to where ever it was he was going to each night.

Now, a disguise. That would be easy enough. He’d already lost two stone since he’d seen John last; if he wore something baggy, a bland pharmaceutical uniform, it’d give him the appearance of being slighter than he was. A few simple enough prosthetics for his damned conspicuous cheekbones, another to give him a solid aquiline nose, and a few centimetres in his shoes to add to the effect. His hair was already terribly short and ginger, and he’d gotten used to the pale, grey green contacts that were mostly solid in color, enough to cover his more unusual heterochromatic ones. He’d found this disguise to be completely plain and unnoticeable. A ugly cap to hide his face and top off the ruse, and he was confident he could be within a foot of his former flatmate without the man being none the wiser.

Sherlock smirked. Catching back up with John Watson was more entertaining than he’d expected.

-o-

“What do you mean, you absolute moron!?” Sherlock roared at the technician.

The Erti technician had worked for the elder Holmes far too long to be fazed by the younger, “I meant exactly as I said, perhaps you should have your hearing checked,” they snipped, but repeated anyways, “The tracking device you placed on Dr. Watson is approximately 8 yards above the hull of Habituation C. And yes, I am aware that this places the tracking device outside of the ship.”

“What’s that there - above the Saphhite deck? The lift lists Sapphite as the highest deck,” Sherlock pointed.

“Until you’re no longer dead, and your clearance is restored, I cannot give you that information. Talk to your brother. Better yet, bother him with all this, and leave me to do my job.” They closed the program down, and opened up something benign until Sherlock flounced out in disgust.

Fooling John with his delivery disguise had been disappointingly simple. He’d gotten so close; he could even tell how John’s scent had changed. He’d wanted to bury his had in John’s neck then and there, but the mystery was too great. But right now, even as he was frustrated; he was intrigued, stimulated, and rather proud of John for being ever the enigma.

Approaching Mycroft’s office, he missed the ability to burst a door open suddenly, as he could on some of the planets with more organic housing materials. By the time the electronic door slid open, Mycroft was already giving him a dull, disinterested look.

“And now you’ve discovered that all the trackers lead outside the hull of the ship,” Mycroft stated, and Sherlock bristled that he’d apparently been following in Mycroft’s footsteps.

“So you’ve checked the location, I suspect?” Sherlock fiddled with a small paperweight in the shape of a planet, no doubt, from some ambassador. “What is that deck anyways?”

“The Palisades deck. It’s location and existence is confidential for the protections of dignitaries, presidents, and other high profile guests to the Vanguard. I have sent my security with the absolute highest clearances to the deck and the three flats it contains. Every inch has been checked, every window, and we can confirm, undoubtedly, that the location of the tracker is, in fact, outside the hull,” Mycroft sighed. “And as Dr. Watson is not a threat, nor engaging in other illicit activities, my investigation ended there. You may waste your time as you please. Know that in two days, you’ll be revealed as alive, and he’ll come to you. Perhaps you should just have a nice cup of tea and conduct an experiment. Relax.” Mycroft knew Sherlock would do no such thing, but the very suggestions would put him off, and get his brother out of his office.

“I want access to the Palisades deck,” Sherlock demanded.

“Fine, but only the Trillium flat is unoccupied. I forbid you to bother the guests in the other two. Besides, little brother, if you can’t figure it out with just access to the deck and one flat, I’d have to believe you were slipping.” Mycroft knew the goading would be enough for Sherlock to obey his stipulations out of pride alone. Sherlock scowled at being so obviously manipulated, and yet there was no good way to retaliate, other than to prove himself yet again.

-o-

He waited outside the clinic until he saw the flash of John’s cardigan as he went into work. Confirming he was most definitely not outside the hull of the ship, Sherlock made his way to the lift, and demanded access to the the Palisades deck. The lift acknowledged him, and when he stepped out, he saw three doors, the Trillium flat, and the other two he knew were occupied. He started by walking the the perimeter of the lobby.

He ran his fingers over the walls, and on the third wall, he felt it before he saw it. A door materialised before him, a fourth flat that evaded every computer, every system on the ship. Exactly what was John doing, living here?

Curious, he pressed his palm to the door. Maybe John had programmed it for him; sentiment was such a useful emotions for others to have. As he’d hoped, the door began to shimmer, and opened for him, leading into a foyer. He stepped in quietly, noting how the architecture deliberately made it impossible to see the entire rest of the flat from where he stood. The only direction to go was a single long hallway to the left.


	2. Spoil the Big Surpise

Seb heard the alert that the front door was opening, and stood quickly. There were only a few people that even could access the front door and Spyder already confirmed it wasn’t John. Nothing good could come of this and it was only a few yards before they’d come around the corner and see him standing there, holding his sleeping daughter.

He quickly laid Phee on the chair, tucking a pillow on one side of her so that she was valleyed comfortably against the back of the chair, then quietly spun it so that she was out of view. He hated that he didn’t have time to hide her, to protect her more thoroughly. He pulled his weapon from the biolock safe embedded into the coffee table and aimed to the hall, the cold fury of hate on his face. There was no other entry into the flat from the front door and he’d die before he let anyone touch his child.

Seb didn’t know what to expect, but was left breathless when Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes appeared in his flat. A flurry of images, emotions, the pain of being whipped as his flesh split open, Jim viciously crying out Sherlock’s name; it all overwhelmed him; he could see the blood dripping down his arms, his chest, his knees. He could barely control it; his mind was unravelling. He tried to shoot as he fell to his knees with a single, blood curdling scream, and everything went quiet.

-o-

John was working when he got an alert about Seb. Giving his apologies, he hurried home.

“There is a guest in the flat. Sebastian has discharged his weapon,” Spyder informed him quietly as he stepped into the foyer. Blood running cold, he picked up a hidden pistol and moved forward cautiously, wondering why Phee wasn't crying and praying she was okay. God help the intruder if Seb or Phee were hurt.

Gun steady, he came silently around the corner. A man was standing with his back to him, reminding John of the bloke that had checked his license the other day. The man bounced a little and John realized he was holding Phee. From where he was standing he couldn’t see Seb, but his lover was probably curled up in a ball somewhere just out of sight. And this stranger, for some reason, had set him off. Was it Jim Moriarty all over again?

“Whoever you are, put down my daughter,” said John coldly.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock smiled wide as he turned to face John, delighted to have been taken by surprise, “I know you don’t think much of my social skills, but surely you can recognise that even I wouldn’t drop an infant. And certainly not yours.”

He looked at the child, a little girl, with the same incoming storm in her eyes he recognised in John’s. “I think she’s lovely.” He nudged his foot at the man on the floor, “Although I can’t say as much for your nanny. Sure, he looks intimidating, but he’s a terrible shot and faints at the first sign of trouble. Didn’t even stir when I cuffed him. You should consider getting some better help,” he laughed, looking around at the opulent flat, “It looks as though you could afford it.”

He looked to John, whose face still twisted in rage, and frowned. “Shouldn’t you be at the clinic still?”

“Sebastian is her Pattri,” said John, a thousand emotions flickering through at once. “And you probably sent him into a panic. Spyder is set to alert me because we wanted to make sure I’d come if he had one of his attacks.”

John unloaded, then set the gun down and went to Seb’s side, gently rubbing his back. “You have no idea what Jim did to him. I doubt you have any idea what you did to me.” John’s voice was still full of fury even as his mind reeled.

Sherlock frowned again, there was a plethora of information he suddenly needed to file. He pulled the keys for the cuffs from his pocket, handed them to John, and sat the child on her blanket on the floor, where her toys were. He sat on the couch, pulling his legs up, and closed his eyes to sort what he knew.

John huffed, debating about leaving Ophelia, but decided she’d be fine for the two minutes it would take for John to carry Seb into the garden if she was in her playpen. He put her into it, then grabbed Seb. Settling him in the hammock, John brought him around. “I’m here, Seb. You’re safe, Phee is safe.”

“Fuck, John, thought I saw him,” Seb gulped, “He was here, in our flat.” He was still breathing fast, but trying to calm himself. He bolted up as he realised, “Where’s Phee? I didn’t hurt her, did I?”

“Not at all. And it seems Sherlock is here. I’m going to bring you Phee and I’m going to talk to him, okay? Find out what the hell is going on.”

“He’s really here?! Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Seb panicked, “If he’s here, where’s Jim? I can’t- I can’t-” Seb started to rub at his arms, as though he could wash off the blood and pain he felt, as though he could convince himself that at the moment, he was fine. “Can you get me something for the panic when you bring Phee?” he asked, knowing he could disappear at any time without help. “Nothing too strong, so I can keep an eye on her. And tea.”

“Of course. I’m not going anywhere Seb.” John kissed his forehead.

-o-

_John Watson. Still a surgeon, still running a clinic on Vanguard. The same clinic he’d been running when he’d left. Hadn’t given up the doctoring; needed to feel useful, to help others._

‘I doubt you have any idea what you did to me.’

‘Sebastian.’

‘Jim.’

‘Spyder.’

‘You have no idea what Jim did to him _.’_

_Sebastian Moran. Then he wasn’t a ghost; he’d be pleased to inform Mycroft._

_But Moriarty’s second in command? How? He’d come nowhere near hitting Sherlock when he’d shot, then he’d fainted. No - ‘_ panic’ _, John said. Hadn’t actually fainted, or he would’ve woken quickly. Almost catatonic. Dissociative. The sight of him had sent Moran into a panic. The scream should have been obvious, but he’d been too distracted by the crying infant._

_The child. John’s child. Moran’s child. Were they partnered? Married? Pledged? Had he missed his chance? Would John ever want to come back to him?_

_The child was about seven months old, give or take a month, so John and Moran had been, at the very least, physically engaged for nearly a year and a half. They lived together; Sherlock doubted that John would take kindly to him bringing Moran in for questioning, as he was the mother of their - no, the_ ‘Pattri.’

‘Pattri’ _\- so a Retten hybrid. Dietary differences, some skin tone differences that were environmental, therefore not typically seen outside of Retten homeworlds, and a reduced sensitivity to pain. Or, an extremely high tolerance, depending on how it was defined._

‘You have no idea what Jim did to him.’

_The scream. Almost catatonic. Moran may have been second in command, but it wasn’t by choice. Jim Moriarty had shown time and time again that people were little more than high stake pawns in a life he saw as nothing more than a game. Moran had been a prisoner then, either physically, emotionally, or most likely, both._

-o-

John fetched the medication and a drink for Seb, then their daughter, making sure both were as settled as they could be.

Sherlock was still in his mind palace, so John got them both tea and sat down to wait, studying the ghost before him. Sherlock was thin, too thin. There was something wild about his appearance. Clearly the last few years had been difficult as well. But why had he faked his death then, if he was so obviously still alive? Why not give John a sign? Tell him anything? Why make him believe it had all meant nothing?

-o-

Seb held Phee as he rocked back and forth in the hammock; she was unusually calm and snuggly, as though she knew he needed the comfort. He took in deep breaths of her scent and felt his panic wane mildly. It wasn’t entirely gone; but he was still alert and able to look after Phee, which was more important.

“Spyder, water protection,” he said. The thin, sturdy plexiglass slid to cover the stream and the waterfall ceased its flow. They’d added that protection in as Ophelia grew mobile, so that she could safely enjoy the garden with them.

He swung them both out of the hammock, and sat on the grass while Phee crawled about, pulling at flowers, ripping grass from the ground, and laughing as the holographic butterflies flitted about her head. He sipped at his tea, and slowly began to deliberate their new circumstances.

-o-

_There was so much that was yet to be explained. Why the secrecy? How? He had so much to ask John about._

Sherlock opened his eyes, to see John sitting on a chair across from him, clearly displeased. He looked at the table to see a cup of tea and smiled; count on John to be a gracious host.

“How did you elude Mycroft so well?” Sherlock asked, the impressive security measures foremost on his mind.

“I didn’t know I was,” said John, honestly.

“According to every electronic system on the Vanguard, this flat doesn’t exist. The tracker I placed on you told us you were outside the hull. The front door doesn’t materialise unless you’ve been given access to the system,” Sherlock prattled off, “How else am I in your system unless you put me there?”

“I didn’t. Perhaps Moriarty did. I’m certain Seb would never have. How are you alive?”

“Oh!” Sherlock beamed excitedly, “This isn’t Moran’s flat, it’s Moriarty’s!” He jumped up, “Can I get a tour? Can I talk to the computer system? Show me his bedroom; so much to learn!” Sherlock rubbed his hands together with glee, then offered a hand to help John stand.

“Sherlock.” John stayed where he was, meeting the man’s eyes. “Sit.” He could feel the pull of Sherlock’s enthusiasm, but there was Seb and Phee to think about. “Even after all this time you don’t give a rat’s ass about me, do you?”

Sherlock’s face fell in confusion. He cared more than he’d ever thought possible; his heart bursting with the pain of it. “Don’t be stupid, John. What was I supposed to do? Come here and regale you with small talk? You hate small talk, always have. You pretend, but we both know better,” Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand. “But excitement, a good mystery, a bit of danger? You’re practically addicted to it! How bored you must have been, playing house, but don’t you see?”

When the look on John’s face didn’t change, Sherlock slumped his shoulders petulantly with a pout, then jolted back into his animated explanation. “You’re my friend, my companion, and what sort of friend would I be if I didn’t save you from this drudgery? I can provide the excitement, the mystery you need, and ever so perfectly, you’ve brought the danger and your own mystery! Don’t you see?” he asked again. “Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, I solve the murders, you save the lives! We’re the perfect dyad!”

John shook his head. “You left me, Sherlock. For almost three years. You left me to grieve. You left me to believe that whatever we had meant nothing.” John couldn’t help the anguish in his voice.

“It was unavoidable,” Sherlock explained, chastised. “I had to be dead to destroy Moriarty’s infrastructure across the galaxy. I had to be dead to keep you alive. _I had to keep you alive_.” Sherlock emphasised, then huffed in disbelief. “In fact, I’d guarantee that your _friend_ there,” Sherlock pointed towards the direction John had gone with Moran, “Was the one with the crosshairs on your shuttlecraft as Moriarty aimed to complete his little narrative.”

John’s stern expression didn’t change and suddenly the flat was stifling and constrictive.

Sherlock’s lips thinned and he turned to fetch his coat from the sofa. He’d ruined everything. In trying to save John, he’d lost him. He swallowed hard. _At least John was safe_.

With deliberate precision, he buttoned the coat up as he looked at John. “I am no stranger to missing the complexities of human emotion, John. But even I have to note that you seem to acting as though I have done something unforgivable, when you yourself have done the same thing time and time again.

“You always strove to complete the mission, regardless of the costs. It wasn’t Sarah’s near demise that upset you, but that we didn’t capture Shang. You were more than willing to sacrifice us both when we’d first met Moriarty. Even your injury was a result of doing what you felt was necessary, saving the life of one of your men, regardless of the potential danger and detriment to yourself.” Sherlock flipped the collar of his coat, feeling a bit petty, knowing how John hated it. “And yet, I do the same, and am now the villain.”

Sherlock walked towards the door, “Lestrade will be holding a press conference tomorrow to announce that I am no longer physically or legally dead. You may find yourself getting increased attention. I would consider how you want to handle that.”

“I’m selfish?” asked John. ‘One word, Sherlock. That’s all I needed. And now? Now I have a child to worry about, let alone Seb. How did you expect me to react? You killed yourself chasing after Moriarty.”

“I don’t believe selfish was the word I was implying. Hypocritical, yes,” Sherlock responded coolly; he had no doubt that John would have done the same for him out of friendship alone, how dare he blame Sherlock for doing the same? “One word could have given me away, could have ensured my death and yours. As for your child and the former assassin you live with, I don’t believe I’ve asked anything beyond walking around your flat, so I fail to see how that causes you concern.”

He could feel the walls rising. He expected John to be happy to see him, perhaps impressed that he was still alive; he’d even prepared himself for a hug or show of physical affection. He expected some scolding, but not much more than ‘a bit not good’ and then they’d laugh. But this; to find John living with, _having a family with_ , one of the very men he’d been trying to save John from, and then for John to be angry that Sherlock hadn’t died; it felt as though John was telling him he’d rather Sherlock _had_ died.

He hadn’t felt this sense of disappointment in years; he thought he’d steeled himself against the idiots who treated him that way. He never expected he’d need to be prepared for John to treat him this way, and he started to better understand the idiom ‘one’s heart is breaking.’

“I should go,” Sherlock’s mask had settled into place, “If you need me, you know where I live.”

“Sherlock.” John ran his hands through his hair. “Don’t you understand what you did to me?” He took a few deep breaths. “You killed yourself to save me?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth; wasn’t that what he’d been saying all along? Still he answered with forced patience, “Yes. And as a result, you are alive, I am alive, and all of Moriarty’s men, save the man in the other room, are not.”

-o-

Seb let Ophelia hold onto his fingers as she tried to stand on bowed and wobbly legs. On average, Retten hybrids walked sooner than their human counterparts, since they didn’t fear falling or the subsequent pain as much. But as Phee was only a quarter Retten, he guessed she’d walk around the same time as other children her age. Not that he’d met other children her age. Neither had she. He added it to the mental tally of reasons why he should just leave.

He knew John loved him, but never the way he’d loved Sherlock. He had always been a consolation prize, and he had been fine with that. It was more than he’d ever hoped for; he’d expected to bleed out underneath Jim Moriarty’s lizard-like grin. And Sherlock- the very thought of the man made his heart start to pound, so he decided to hold off assessing him until he had better control of himself. Or at the very least, Phee was no longer in his immediate care.

John was amazing, in every way Seb could imagine. And he wasn’t stupid, he knew that John would leave one day. He’d just been hoping he’d have more time. But Seb wasn’t what he needed, and while John seemed content with the domesticity they’d developed now, he knew it couldn’t last. John had sought out surgical trauma, the life of a soldier, and then Sherlock Holmes. He was a man of action. He needed suspense, danger, excitement, and Seb knew he couldn’t provide it.

They’d never talked about it, either. Neither one of them had mentioned that during the entirety of their relationship, Seb had only left the flat three times; his mission, the clinic, and the birth. He must be suffocating John.

Ophelia climbed into his lap, tugging at his shirt. He smiled at her as he picked her up, and arranged them both so that he could feed her in the comfort of the hammock. He loved her too; more than he’d believed he’d ever be capable of. What sort of Pattri was he that he could go catatonic in mere moments, that he never left the flat, how would he care for her as she grew older? She’d go off to school, and want him to come to her performances, to meet other parents, to have friends. She’d want a normal life, not a fainting goat of a Pattri. He’d hold her back. Just like he’d been holding John back.

The thought of leaving her tore his heart in two, but he couldn’t deny that she’d be so much better off without him.

As would John.

-o-

"I'm certain Seb did bad things, but what Moriarty did to him was much worse. Come on, I'll show you the flat," sighed John. He didn't want Sherlock to leave. Didn't want this ghost to vanish.

Sherlock paused; he hadn’t expected John to change his mind. He nodded quietly, afraid to say something that might change John’s mind yet again. He removed his coat slowly, draping it back over the sofa. He waited, keeping his own bubbling curiosity hidden for John’s sake.

John walked him around the flat, talking quietly. The truth was he had felt a bit of an itch, but he had a family to worry about, a small child. That had to come before anything and everything else.

“Fascinating,” Sherlock commented. “So much of the common rooms is meant to be a contradiction. Posh, but eclectic; the whole place is meant to give an air of the unexpected. I can see the changes you’ve made, too.” Sherlock could tell easily, the changes John made felt like home. It hadn’t occurred to him that upon his return, John might no longer be his home. “I imagine the only room in this flat that could accurately reflect Moriarty himself would be his bedroom. May I see it?”

“No.” John saw the look on Sherlock’s face. “It doesn’t exist anymore. Half the room was a torture chamber. I tore everything out and made a garden for Seb. A place of healing instead of pain. That’s where he is now.”

“How dull,” Sherlock frowned, “I expected something more creative from Moriarty. Torture? That’s just pedestrian.” He was disappointed, although Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure exactly what he was hoping to find. He supposed that was the point; he was hoping for something magnificent, something brilliant, but it seemed that Moriarty couldn’t keep himself from being bored any more than Sherlock could. “I suppose you didn’t think to take pictures?”

Sherlock stopped, “The computer! Can I talk to the computer?”

“Go ahead. I need to check on Seb and Ophelia.”

“Spyder, I’m assuming?”

“Yes. There’s a panel just there if you’d like.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock turned to the computer.

“Spyder, who am I?” he started.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Who created you?”

“James Moriarty.”

“He doesn’t use a pseudonym?”

“He has no reason to. He is dead.”

“How can you be sure?”

“The self-installed electronic disruptor was disintegrated into the Reichenbach black hole.”

“I was on the same ship, how am I not dead?”

“You have an internally installed personal teleporter device. Radiation readings suggest that it approached the black hole yet was not immersed in it. You teleported from the ship once it was no longer possible for the ship itself to reverse course.”

“Clever,” Sherlock grinned.


	3. Baker's Man

“Seb, how are you doing?” asked John, stepping into the garden. He smiled at the sight of Phee chasing butterflies.

“She’s happy, now that she’s been fed. I’m managing. Once you are capable of taking her, I might need some stronger tranquilizers, or just to take off for a few hours.”

Seb took a breath so that his next question would come out calmly. “When do you think you’ll move back in with him?”

John blinked. “Why do you think I’m going to do that?”

“You were in love with him. You still are. It’s fine, John, I understand. You, more than anyone I know, deserve happiness. To not be trapped inside a flat with me, to actually get to live for the danger and excitement you’ve always wanted. You have a social network, friends, Phee would meet people, get to play with other children; be loved by more than just us. She deserves that, John. She deserves so much more than I can give her. And so do you.”

“Seb… I’ve got no plans on leaving you.” John took a step towards him.

“You should,” he shrugged, “I’ll be fine.” He didn’t entirely believe it; but right now they were the words binding him together, keeping him solid. Maybe one day, after John moved out, he’d escape from his mind and never come back. It was honestly the best way he’d ever thought he might die. It was reassuring, and Seb smiled at John, hoping John could see that he really would be fine; though he suspected that John’s definition of fine and his own might differ.

“What about Phee? She needs her Pattri.”

“We both know that while I love her with all that I can, I’m terrible at raising a child. She’s never met other people, I am nothing but worthless, to her and to you, and I can visit. No matter where I am, she could see me in the holodeck. She’d never feel abandoned. Never unwanted.”

Unlike him; lost without purpose yet again. His rifle design was in testing phases; his sniper vessel could handle more storage. He could pack it all away, leave a program for Ophelia; she could see him whenever she needed. Who knows where he could end up?

“Seb, is that honestly what you want?” John felt torn. The duty part of him said to stay with Sebastian. But his heart...

“I want the best. For you and for Ophelia. We can take it slowly, give her a few months to adjust,” Seb looked at John, into his eyes, “I could never compete with Sherlock Holmes. And I don’t really have any interest in watching you pine over him, while stoically doing the “right thing” by staying with me. You and I? I’d rather we leave on amicable terms.”

John studied his face and gave a short nod. “Okay… okay.” He stepped forward and kissed him gently. “Just remember, you do deserve love.”

Seb gently lifted Ophelia up for John to take, “I think I’m going to need the tranquilizers tonight. And I’ll sleep in the spare, in case of the nightmares.” He plastered on a convincing, exhausted look to cover his grief and absolute conviction that John was wrong. “Can you handle her for the night?”

“Of course, Sebastian. I’ll make sure you have whatever you need. I… keep this place, this garden, okay? At least take a holo of it.”

Seb blinked, “Right, of course. Yes. You should have it.” He stood to leave the room, kissing Phee on the head as he walked away. “I’ll start making plans tomorrow.”

“What? No, Seb. I meant keep the flat. But if you do chose to leave then take that. That’s all. This place is yours.”

“No, it’s never been mine. I’ll take my ship, find someplace new. But you two, you can have a family here; the safety precautions will protect you and protect Phee. You’ll want for nothing.” He didn’t think he could take much more of this conversation, and sighed. “I- I need a break tonight. We can talk more tomorrow. If he stays, please, don’t let him sleep in our bed, or the spare - I’ll be there. The bedroom by the kitchen should suffice.”

He left, not out the door, but the hidden panel to the master bath, then into the labyrinth, where he could get to the spare room without possibly running into Holmes.

John sighed and scrubbed his face, then carried Phee to go check on Sherlock.

Sherlock was still chattering away at the computer, barely paying attention to his surroundings.

“Why isn’t John chipped?”

“I don’t believe that John nor Sebastian realized it was an option. I could provide similar chipping for John and Ophelia.”

“Who’s Ophelia?”

“My daughter,” said John from behind him.

“Oh, yes, the child,” Sherlock acknowledged. He faced John, “This computer is remarkable. Did you know that it’s not possible to capture Moran on any electronic system? He’s been implanted with a chip that distorts all recording devices. He doesn’t even know he’s got it; it’s how he’s stayed off the radar for as long as he has. Spyder can chip you and your daughter as well. Can you imagine how useful that could be?”

John held Phee a little tighter. “Perhaps. Are you going to stay here tonight?”

“I doubt Moran would appreciate it. But I do need to stop by our flat. Haven’t seen Mrs. Hudson yet. Would you like to come with me? She’d be utterly beside herself to coddle the child.” Sherlock beamed brightly at him. Perhaps he might have his John back after all.

John hesitated only a moment. “Okay.”

“Where’s your teleport? That’ll be the easiest way.” Sherlock grabbed his coat and closed the computer terminal.

“Over here. Let me just get a few things for Phee and we can go.”

-o-

Seb heard the gentle chime of the transporter and asked, “Spyder, who left?”

“Sherlock Holmes, John, and Ophelia.”

Of course. He’d left already. He wondered if John would convince Sherlock to live here, or if he’d move out with Phee entirely. Either way, he didn’t plan on being here when it happened. He compiled a list of things he’d need to do before leaving, and tried to keep his hands and mind busy; he didn’t want to escape right now. The last thing he wanted was John to stay out of guilt.

Seb couldn’t help how it hurt; the burrowing pain in his chest unlike any of the physical blows Moriarty had even given. He’d built a life with John for more than a year and a half, they’d had a child together, and it took less than two hours for John to abandon him. He knew John’d loved Sherlock more, but now he questioned now if John had ever loved him at all. It was never said, but Seb had assumed. Such an idiot, once again.

Seb sighed. He’d meant it, really, that he wanted John happy, Phee happy, but he hadn’t expected John to desert him quite so enthusiastically.

He must have been horrible; how had John put up with him? A sense of honour, due to Ophelia no doubt. And once Seb had promised he wouldn’t take her from him, that must have been John’s chance to flee, to go back to a life he loved, to not be saddled with Seb, his baggage, and his pathetic excuse for an existence.

-o-

_“I’m the only one who could ever want you, Sebby,” Jim had said, carving intricate designs on Seb’s skin as he was restrained and gagged. “I make you beautiful. I make you interesting.”_

-o-

_“You are simply perfect, Moran,” Jim had said, fucking into him, using the blood dripping down from the welts on his back as lubricant, “A sniper rifle, my personal precision weapon with a tight, hot, hole.”_

-o-

_“Don’t think for a moment that they might actually want you,” Jim had said, fetching him from a brutal week at Irene’s, “You are nothing more than a exceptionally responsive sex toy to them. I’m the only one who wants to take you home. The only one who would ever want you.”_

-o-

He knew it was a bad idea, he knew he’d end up escaping his mind once again, and god knows for how long this time. And yes, John would probably feel guilty, but Seb already knew there was no going back. He wouldn’t let John stay with him, not now. But he needed to retreat into his memories, to a time he was actually wanted, even if it were in the most twisted of ways possible.

“Spyder, pull up file 546,” he ordered, “Play it on the screen.”

Seb settled himself, knowing he’d leave at some point and figured he might as well be comfortable when he did. As the recordings began to play, he saw he and Jim together, happy, as much as you could call any part of what they had happy. Seb had collected recordings of their more pleasant (or less painful) encounters when Jim had started to pull away, sucked into the game he was playing with Holmes.

As he watched it now, he knew how abhorrent it was that these were his pleasant memories; watching how Jim treated him. He could see his body when the scars were fresh, black stitches in contrast against his skin when Jim had cut him open, or whipped him too hard.

But this is what he was good for. He’d tried domesticity, and apparently was so inadequate that John discarded him the first chance he could. And he couldn’t even protect Ophelia – Holmes had to hold her as he lay catatonic on the floor. He’d never even brought her to the park to meet other children.

But this – he watched as Jim abused him and remembered the paradoxical warmth of affection he’d felt at the time. Maybe this was what he was supposed to do; supposed to be. Not a person of his own rights, but an object, belonging to Jim. All he’d ever done with his own life was fuck it up.

The next recording was Jim himself, leaning over Seb’s back, cleaning the deep gashes down his shoulders, flank, and arse with antiseptic, and beginning to suture him up. It was one of the few times Jim had taken care of him instead of pawning him off on the doctor. And though Seb still counted it as a pleasant memory, there were no denying the screams of pain he was making on the screen. His flesh had been ripped apart and Jim was sewing him together without any sort of anaesthesia. “If it doesn’t hurt, Sebby, how will you learn?” Jim said calmly, over the sounds of Seb gasping for air. “No one else could love you like I could, no one else would take the time to teach you how to behave.”

The scars on Seb’s back began to throb, began to burn, and his own screams from the screen echoed in his head. It wasn’t long before blissfully, he escaped, leaving his body comfortably on the bed, the video of he and Jim on repeat.

-o-

Mrs. Hudson hadn’t reacted much better than John had and Sherlock was beginning to sense he’d missed something. But once she’d calmed down, and of course, once she saw sight of the child, she’d perked up.

“See, John,” Sherlock said, with a wave of his hand, “She adores the child. Leave her with Mrs. Hudson, and we can see how our flat has held up after all this time.” He wanted just for a moment, for he and John to be alone, in their flat, like it had been before. Everything was different now, but he wanted to remember, even if it were just a quarter hour.

“All right.” He kissed the top of Phee’s head.

Sherlock grinned. Aside from slightly underestimating their response to his being alive, things were going just as planned. He opened the door to the flat, and felt an odd sense of peace. He’d never been one to ascribe sentiment to the concept of home, but there was something comforting about the familiarity of the place. The board game stabbed into the wall, the chemistry lab still adorning the table, though he imagined most of his chemicals may need to be chucked. He didn’t dare open the fridge while John was still here; he didn’t want to drive him away quite so obviously.

“It’s exactly as it was,” Sherlock announced, content. “You didn’t move anything, did you?”

“I moved out a few weeks after you died. I couldn’t bear to stay here.”

“Mycroft should have been paying Mrs. Hudson my part of the rent. Did he make you move?” Sherlock asked, confused. A thought dawned on him, “Oh! You could have had him hire cleaners if you were worried about the experiments or surprises in the refrigerator.”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” asked John. “You don’t understand at all why I’m upset, or Mrs. Hudson.”

“Well, yes, I understand that my supposed death caused you temporary grief. But that was years ago, and shouldn’t that past bereavement be outweighed by the current fact that I’m alive? I understand it was, as you have so eloquently put it, ‘a bit not good,’ to be the cause of your mourning, but I have to say, I’m actually rather surprised that you all seem quite cross to see that I’m still alive.”

“You broke our hearts, Sherlock.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it again, his brow furrowed. Finally he spoke softly, “I apologise, John. I died because I could not bear the thought of losing you, losing Mrs. Hudson, nor even Lestrade. I failed to consider how you might bear losing me.”

He sat in his old chair, finding it every bit as comfortable as it had been, and looked up at John. “I knew he was planning on enticing me to my death; to carry out his narrative. I was prepared, or so I thought; Mycroft and I had a number of contingency plans. But stupidly, I hadn’t planned on his threats on your lives. And until all his men, each one that might carry out his final threat, were detained or dead, I couldn’t return.”

Sherlock huffed a bitter laugh and looked at the floor, “Ironically, the only reason I came back without having neutralised Sebastian Moran was that he was a ghost. There was absolutely no proof the man existed, other than the word of men I’d already captured. Mycroft convinced me Moran was most likely nothing more than a name, used by Moriarty to incite fear. And that if he did exist, he wasn’t currently operating; as nothing prevented me from slaying through Moriarty’s web. There was absolutely no organisational resistance.”

“He was broken, so was I, that’s why we fit so well together. Phee was an accident; he didn’t even know he was Retten.”

“What is he to you?” Sherlock asked hesitantly; he needed to know if there was any hope. “There’s no ring, you aren’t married. Flat mates with an accidental child? Nothing legal anyways, he doesn’t exist.”

"For one, I probably would have killed myself if I hadn't met him." John met Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock frowned. It was disconcerting, but it also wasn’t the question he’d asked. He paused, weighing the words in his mind; yes, it would be more relevant to discuss John’s revelation than to continue to define John and Moran’s relationship.

“That seems unusually drastic for you, John. You’ve mates, family, a solid career, you even had free lodging. Mrs. Hudson would have been happy to care for you. Yes, you were more tolerant of me than anyone else I’ve ever known, but last thing you called me was a machine, so forgive me, but I had no idea how deeply it might affect you.” Sherlock was quiet for a moment.

John’s declaration was extreme, exceptionally so; usually such declarations or actions were reserved for lovers, but John had been more than clear regarding the casual nature of their relationship. They _weren’t_ a couple, that though sex with men was enjoyable, women were John’s romantic preference. Sherlock didn’t have to worry, he’d said, he wouldn’t expect romance; it wasn’t what they were about.  Although that had clearly changed in his absence.

"I almost did it before I met you. I thought I meant something to you. And then you were gone as if I'd never mattered at all."

Something clicked for Sherlock and his heart sank. He kept his voice steady and deep, and asked, “Does that mean Moran is to you now, what I was to you then?”

If it were true, it could mean so many things. That perhaps Sherlock would have had a chance with John Watson all those years ago. Perhaps his affections, _his love_ , for John was reciprocated. And likewise, it could mean that Moran had replaced him; that all John’s love and care was now dedicated to the man who’d help put him back together, the Pattri of his child. And of course, the child; John was a good man, no matter what John decided, the child would be his priority.

John reached out and took his hand. “No, Sherlock, he’s not. And I think he knows that. You’re the only one I ever really wanted. When you left you took my heart with you. I… I’ve tried to move on, tried to make another life, but it’s always you.”

“How was I to know? ‘You don’t have to worry, Sherlock. I’m not going to fall in love with you. I know you’re married to your work’,” Sherlock quoted. How should I have known?”

“Because you’re the great detective, Sherlock. You can always see what’s not being said.”

Sherlock stood, looking at John’s eyes, seeing nothing but the truth. He ran his long fingers past John’s temple, behind his ear, then down his jaw line. He wanted to kiss him, but resisted the temptation; after all, John still wasn’t entirely his.

“If only I had known, John,” he traced his fingers down John’s arm, “We could have had so much time together.”

“Ironically, that’s part of why I went with Seb. Losing you made me realise I needed to stop lying to myself. Besides, I never thought you were interested in any of that.” Sherlock’s touch was sending shocks through his system.

“Neither had I,” Sherlock muttered, stepping into John’s space. Hesitantly, he slid his arms around John’s waist and tucked his head into John’s neck, giving him a proper hug. John felt warm and fantastic against him, it had been far too long since he’d felt any sort of affection. He didn’t know what he would do; what John would do. But for the moment, he just held onto John, revelling in his comfort.

John didn’t pull away. Instead he gently ran his hands down Sherlock’s back. Sherlock smelled just like he remembered. He closed his eyes and relaxed under his embrace.

After longer than Sherlock was sure was acceptable, he pulled back, though he didn’t let go of John entirely. “The press conference tomorrow. Will you come?”

“I will. I should probably check on Seb though for now. I’ll see you soon though, okay?”

“Must you leave so soon?” Sherlock muttered, letting his voice drop deep and smooth, as he did whenever he needed to attract the attention of others. “He’s had you for ages, can’t you sit for a cup of tea?”

John hesitated. He should go, Seb would know he’d left. Still, Sherlock’s hands were warm on his hips, a touch he’d craved for far too long.

Sherlock sniffed, “Can you smell that? Mrs. Hudson’s making biscuits. She’ll be over with warm biscuits, tea, and your daughter in just a few minutes. Wait that long, at least?”

“Okay,” John leaned in close to him again.

So many thoughts, questions were running through Sherlock’s mind as he breathed in John’s new scent.

_When could John move back in? Did he want to?_

_The child? Would he let his little girl live here?_

_What would John do about Moran?_

_What would_ he _do about Moran?_

_Would John stay at Moran’s? Would Moran stay at Moran’s?_

_Would they all have to pretend to be one big happy family? Was that even possible?_

Sherlock knew the child was a permanent part of his life now. Given John and his sense of duty, and John’s newly confessed emotions for Sherlock, he imagined he’d be given nothing less than banal familiarity, such as Uncle Sherlock.

_Perhaps if John were serious about his confession, if they were to become intimate partners, would he be Daddy or Papa instead?_

_Did he want to be? He’d never, in any variation of his life’s plans, considered a child._

_He’d have to remember her name before John realised he’d forgotten it._

His reverie was broken by a gentle “Woo hoo!” and a happy squeal, as Mrs. Hudson opened the door to the flat. She smiled knowingly at the sight of her two boys, so close together. Maybe this time, they'd stop being so damned stubborn. And with a baby! She beamed at the idea of a baby toddling around the flats.

Phee stretched out to John, eyes red with tears.

“Poor thing missed you, seems a bit shy around strangers. Does she get out much?” Mrs Hudson asked as she pulled the warm biscuits and tea from the local transport, and sat them down at the table near the sofa. She turned to John to confirm, “She’s not going to be able to reach that just yet, hmm?”

"She doesn't get out much at all," admitted John. "And no, not yet."

“No wonder she’s shy. You’ll want to get her around other children, get her socialised. Think we all know what happens if you don’t,” Mrs. Hudson gave John a conspiratorial smile and winked as she tilted her head in Sherlock’s direction. “She’s a sweetheart, though. Is Phee a nickname?”

_God bless Mrs. Hudson_ , Sherlock thought, taking a sip of his tea.

"Yes. Seb named her Ophelia."

“Such a beautiful name, for such as beautiful girl. She’s got your eyes,” Mrs Hudson finished pouring John’s tea and pulled up a chair. “I haven’t heard from you in ages, John, and you show up on my doorstep with Sherlock, and a child no less! You simply must catch me up! Who’s Seb? What’s she like?”

"He, actually," admitted John. "We've been living together about a year and a half."

“So tell me all about him, what’s he like? What’s he do? And Ophelia? Are you both her parents?” Mrs Hudson asked, starving for Baker Deck gossip; Mrs. Turner had been gloating about her married ones for ages, and she couldn’t wait to give her a bit of her own.

"He's been staying home with her. He's her Pattri. Actually I should probably get home to him."

“Stay, finish your tea,” she insisted, “How’d you meet?”

"At the bar a year after Sherlock died."

“One night stand?” Mrs. Hudson smirked, “Just couldn’t stay away from him, could you? I’ve been there, some men, _oh_!” She clearly remembered some exciting, but then her face grew stern and she glared at Sherlock, “You awful boy, putting us through all that! You do it again, and I’ll kill you myself.”

She sighed exasperatedly at John, “The nerve this boy has! I’m glad he’s got you to keep him in line.”

"Yes, well. Have to do what's best for Phee. I should get home," he said yet again.  

“I suppose; it’s just so nice to have the two of you back here,” she sighed. She patted John’s hand, “Take some of the biscuits for you and your…?”

"I will, thank you," smiled John, scooping up Phee. "See you tomorrow."

“John,” Sherlock reminded him, “The Yard, tomorrow at 10? You may want to leave Ophelia; she’ll raise questions you’re clearly not ready to answer.” It had been a few times now, that John had skirted the issue of he and Moran’s relationship. Guilt, most likely, but that wouldn’t do in front of the press. Not at all.

"Course."


	4. Contentment Pales to Passion

John headed back to the Palisade deck. The flat was quiet. "Seb?"

There was no answer and he moved cautiously into the flat. He put Phee in her playpen and found Seb in his bedroom, unmoving in front of a horrific recording.

He shut it off and sat behind Seb, gathering him against his chest and holding him tightly. "You deserve so much more than that, Seb."

There was no response. Seb’s breaths were shallow, his skin pale. He was limp in John’s arms.

John kissed his cheek and just held him, fighting tears.

-o-

<Where are you? Lestrade won’t wait much longer -SH>

<Seb needs me. Go on without me.>

Sherlock read the message and closed his eyes. John had said he’d be there. He hadn’t wanted to face this crowd alone; hadn’t wanted to face Anderson, Donovon, and a slew of press to whom he was bound to say something inappropriate. Lestrade, even Mycroft had confirmed with him this morning that John would attend. It seemed that neither of them trusted his repertoire with the public if John wasn’t by his side.

Sherlock walked over to Lestrade, “It appears John won’t be able to make it.”

“I’m here, Sherlock. Did you need me to go check on him or do you want me to take the podium with you?”

“He apparently has other obligations. I trust you can make the announcement while I stand behind you, then say a few words?” Sherlock responded evenly. Was this how it would be? That at the very suggestion that John might wish to spend time with Sherlock, Moran would swoon and capture his attention? Would they be in continuous competition for John’s interest? There was nothing he could do about it; John would be furious if Moran was captured by authorities within days of his resurrection. Even John couldn’t miss that connection.

Maybe John had been wholly his, years ago. But it didn’t seem to be that way anymore. John wanted to love him, but he was bound, whether by love or pride or obligation, to Moran as well.  Sherlock found he had no interest in even being here for this pointless event, and looked for an escape. He slid towards a corridor.

“Now, Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice echoed behind him. “What is the point of coming back from the dead if all you plan to do is ghost around?”

He looked into the crowd, past Sherlock’s glare. “You know that John will come around in the end; he can’t help but fall into your orbit.” Then he glanced Sherlock’s way and scolded, “Self-pity does not suit you.”

-o-

When Seb came back, he was alone, but there were obvious signs that John had been nearby.

“I will inform John that you are awake,” Spyder said, “He is feeding Ophelia lunch. He will want to know you are okay.”

“Yeah,” Seb answered without much conviction. He sat up, body aching from immobility and took the glass of water and pills John had set by the bedside.

John hurried back to the bedroom. “You’re awake.” He was both relieved and irritated, knowing that he’d missed Sherlock’s conference.

“You’re here,” Seb answered in bitter surprise. “I’m fine. You know I always come back after a while.”

“I wasn’t going to leave you here alone.”

“You already had,” Seb sighed, “I’m going to have to get used to it by myself again.”

“I saw what you were watching. You don’t deserve that, Seb. I wasn’t going to leave you here alone.”

“Nobody deserves anything,” Seb shrugged, “And you are going to leave me alone; you’ve already told me that. So just like I’m going to have to learn how to be alone again, you’re going to have to realise that there’s no point in you trying to care for me.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Seb slid off the bed and pulled off his shirt, desperately needing a  shower. “I understand. I’m not what is best for you. I am not what is best for Phee. And I don’t blame you a bit for that. But that right there-” Seb pointed to the now dark screen, “I was good for something then. That’s what I’m best for. It’s fine, John. You cared for me when you could. But you don’t need the consolation prize when you’ve got the grand prize.”

“Seb…”

“I’m gonna get my ship ready, I’m gonna get the holodeck ready, and I’m going to fall asleep with Phee in my arms one last time, and then I’m gone. There is nothing for me here; not anymore.”

John’s shoulders sagged. “If that’s what you really want.”

“What I want isn’t really the point here, Doc. You’ve made your decision.”

John swallowed and stepped to him, kissing him gently. “For what it’s worth, I’m very glad for you in my life and what we’ve had. And not just Ophelia, but you.”

Seb smirked, “Always been told I was an excellent distraction. But seriously, best year and a half of my life. Never thought I’d get lucky enough. Just a matter of time before it ran out.” John’s pity, his own false declarations were tearing him apart, but Seb hid it well with a sad, but not devastated, smile. “I’ll hang onto Phee for a bit if you want, just gonna finish up the sniper rifle. You can go see him, I know you’d rather be there.”

“I’m not. I’m just going to tidy some things up in the flat.” John tried to think of what token he could give Seb, something to show him that he did care, and he did want good things to happen to him.

“Sure, whatever, Doc. It’ll be your place in just a few anyways. I’m gonna shower, then head to the office. Feel free to bring Phee by if she wakes up.” Seb forced nonchalance before disappearing into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He really didn’t need John following in after him. He undressed, looking in the mirror, looking at his scars, at the lines Jim left. The pain Jim caused was tangible, it left marks, he could see how he’d suffered. The pain John was inflicting was silent, internal, and Seb almost wished he knew how to rip himself open and stitch himself back together. He turned the hot water on as high as he could handle, trying to replace the pain inside with the scalding water on his flesh.

John brought Phee by a little later, along with a small locket. One side had a holo of a flower from their garden, the other side was a picture of Phee.

Seb took Phee, tossing her in the air carefully, much to her glee. She giggled, and Seb ached with how much he’d miss her. But he had to do right by her and he was, in no way, right. As John offered him the locket, he thanked him. There were tears in his eyes, but it was mostly from how hard it was going to be to leave his daughter behind. The locket was a nice touch, but Seb wondered if over time it’d have the same effect as Jim’s file; if he’d pull it out when he wanted to remember being loved, then being torn apart, and escaping from it all again.

Seb bounced Phee on his lap, her building blocks right beside his own testing equipment. He ran simulations as she played, and he knew that he’d only need a final simulation then installation before he’d be ready to go.

-o-

John knocked on Sherlock’s door, wondering if he’d even want to see him after skipping the press conference. But Seb would be gone soon and though John was sorry for that, he also was glad Sherlock was here too.

The door opened automatically, but Sherlock was perched in the kitchen at an experiment. He didn’t bother to greet John as he came in, but he had already gotten John’s chair cleaned and restored so that he had a place to sit.

John smiled softly and closed the door. “Seb’s leaving in the next couple of days. He’s convinced he can’t take care of Phee the way she needs to be and that he’s not good for me.” John scrubbed his face in his hands. “So I guess that means we’ve broken up.”

“It’s for the best; he’s clearly not stable enough. And I’m surprised you were able to put up with boredom long enough. If he knew you at all, he’d know that you need more than a 9-to-5 and holodeck date twice a week,” Sherlock reassured John. It really was for the best. If even he could see how unfitting a match they were; the pairing must be desperately poor. “At least it doesn’t appear that he’s going to vie for your pity with more dramatics; that would be awkward.”

“Christ Sherlock, you’re talking like he never meant a thing to me.” John paced in the front room. “He’s sacrificing because he thinks I should be with you and all you can do is talk about him like he’s an idiot.”

“If your implications regarding his and Moriarty’s relationship are correct, then Moran knows nothing but sacrifice. It’s what he’d be good at, what he knows,” Sherlock responded. “And honestly John, anyone who gives you up without a fight is an idiot.”

Sherlock could tell by the look on John’s face that his words were coming out harsher than he’d meant them to, but the sentiment was the same. Perhaps he was still harbouring some resentment at being stood up at the press conference. He tried to change topics.

“Did you see the headline for the press conference?”

“No, I was taking care of Seb, then I came straight here.”

Sherlock called up the reader on the computer. In big letters it read, “The Boffin is Back,” and in slightly smaller print, “Holmes Alone? Jilted by John.”

John sighed. "You know I'm a man of duty, Sherlock."

“I do,” Sherlock shrugged, “But you know the press by now. It’s probably best that you’ve got the protections of Moriarty’s flat. Can’t have them turning on you next.” He hadn’t cared, but knew John might be more susceptible. He set the chemical he was working with aside; it’s quality hadn’t degraded in his absence, so he moved on to the next container.

He paused, and turned to John, “If Moran’s leaving, what’s to become of the flat? Will you be staying there?” He didn’t know how he felt about that.

"He said I could have it, but if we can make this place safe for Phee I'd rather move here."

“I’m assuming it was willed to him? He can’t sell it; I wonder if he’ll keep it. Seems a shame to waste such ample space. Do you think he’s planning on coming back?”

"Maybe to see Phee. I don't know."

Sherlock frowned. He came over to his chair so that he could see John as he spoke. He started slowly, stopping twice before even a word etched out, and then finally said, “I think you should talk to Lestrade.”

John raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

“I have absolutely zero practical experience in this matter, but he does. He was in a long term relationship, resulting in children, which then ended. Now I understand that you and Moran weren’t married, although I can’t help but notice your reticence to define a relationship that, at the earliest, had to have begun a year and a half ago.” Sherlock leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I know at the very least, there are custody issues to be addressed; I’ve been hailed on a number of those cases. Additionally, I vaguely recall societal and cultural customs that often occur when a relationship ends. Lestrade could help.”

He looked at John, who was resolutely not looking at him. “John,” Sherlock implored, “Look at me.”

Swallowing, John raised his head.

John’s stormy eyes seemed darker than ever. “You are a good man. And as a good man, you will be saddled with guilt until you have fully resolved the situation with Moran. It does not offend me, or make me jealous, that you found a companion while I was gone. And I must admit, Moran is considerably more interesting than any of the dull woman you dated when you lived here. If you need to discuss logical solutions regarding logistics, I offer my assistance. Mycroft will provide legal help. If we can show Moran was acting under duress, it is possible that Mycroft can get him a new identity; one that doesn’t require him to hide. Lestrade can offer you emotional support and information on single fatherhood.”

Sherlock stood suddenly, looking into the mirror above the fireplace, and said quietly, “And if, after the shock of my return has waned, and you decide that you’d rather be with Moran, I will concede. We can be friends and consultants and nothing more, should you choose.” Sherlock sighed, his eyes closed. The thought was abhorrent, and produced a low ache in his gut, but he’d take John any way John would have him.

“No matter what you decide, John, you need to act. You can’t lay here, leaving all three of us limbo. If Moran is planning to leave soon, then you need to discuss visitation and housing arrangements. If you wish to continue your relationship with him, then we can remain friends, and I can contact you for only the best cases; the 9s and 10s, to keep the excitement in your life you need. But if you wish to explore the sentiment between us, I cannot do so while you are conflicted and distressed over him.”

John stayed very still for a few long moments, mulling things in his mind. "Seb is leaving. I can only hope he'll find someone good out there. There's only one man I- l- _love_ and it's not him." He found himself nearly choking on the sentiment.

Sherlock clenched his chest, as though his lungs were attempting to escape out his navel. It was a foreign, yet brilliant feeling, and though John still had a look of deep concern, he couldn’t stop from grinning. If John could do it, so could he, and he took a deep breath.

“I find myself similarly inclined,” he admitted, then looked up to gauge John’s reaction.

John studied his eyes, then reached up and cupped his cheek, drawing him into a kiss.

Sherlock gave a soft moan as he wrapped his arms around John, letting John take the lead, letting John have whatever he wanted. It was blissful. He’d wondered what it might be like, even having used his overactive imagination and memories of John sustain him through the darker nights of his death, but nothing he’d imagined compared to this.

John couldn’t help himself as Sherlock melted into his arms. “Sherlock, if you don’t want this, tell me now.”

“Want this? I’ve wanted this from the moment you killed a man to save me, from the first time you kissed me, and every time we’d had sex. I was only waiting for you to want it as well.”

“I always did, Sherlock. I… didn’t know why we were having sex, I didn’t think you could actually love me.”

Sherlock gave a small, disbelieving huff, “I thought for sure that I was pathetically obvious; even Lestrade had noticed. Lestrade! I suspected you said nothing in consideration for my _feelings_.” He said the last word with contempt, as if they weren’t actively discussing them at the moment.

“You seemed content the few times we did sleep together, but it’s not like we did anything but the physical act. You never initiated things. I was always worried I was pressuring you.”

“With whom else did I dine out regularly? Offer my accounts to ease their technological deficiencies? I solved Irene’s little puzzle for _you_ ; I stared right as you as I did so. Even Moriarty knew - what do you think he meant by ‘burning the heart out of me’?” Sherlock gave a weak smile, “You are such an idiot, John Watson.”

“So are you.” John leaned up and kissed him again. “My idiot.”

Sherlock kissed back, hard and passionate, desperate for every touch of John he could get. He stepped backwards, dragging John with him until his knees hit the back of his chair. As he collapsed into it, he tugged John down with him, so that John was straddling his lap.

Groaning, John kissed him with just as much passion in return, grinding down against his lap, fingers tangling in his hair. All his other thoughts were gone, only thinking of Sherlock now.

At the friction of John’s fantastic cock, Sherlock groaned and slipped his hands down the backside of John’s slacks and into his pants. He felt the heat of John’s skin, his arse, and rutted up, rolling his hips so that their erections found each other. He gasped, and with a sudden jolt, caused John to fall into him, so that he could lay kiss after kiss, naughty wet bites, down the length of John’s neck as Sherlock’s whole body vibrated with the deep rumbles starting deep in his chest and escaping out his throat.

“God, Sherlock,” groaned John, teetering on coming in his pants like a teenager already. “Bedroom?”

“Too far,” Sherlock muttered against his neck, and let one hand slip out of John’s pants to paw at the zip in front. It took him a moment, but he pried John’s trousers open, and with an unexpected lunge, vaulted John back into his own chair, slid John’s trousers and pants down, engulfing John’s cock with his mouth. It’d been far too long, and John, despite the fact that his overall scent was different; his cock was perfectly the same. The light salt of sweat, the musk of sex and want, and John’s leaking; one of Sherlock’s favourite memories.  

“Sherlock!” shouted John, one hand pulling at his hair, brain in overload at that sinful mouth.

Sherlock ignored him completely, other than moaning deliciously at John tugging at the over-sensitive curls atop his head. He bobbed up and down, taking as much as he could, letting his tongue explore the generous width and length he’d missed so very much. John was fantastic; his cock an utter fucking delight, and if he were very, very, lucky, John would fuck him terrifically hard and leave him sore for days.

“Christ,” groaned John, bucking helplessly into his mouth. “Keep that up I won’t be able to fuck you. Still got lube around here?”

Sherlock popped off, “Right. Lube. Bedroom.” He jumped up without notice and stalked off into the bedroom. Distracted, delighted, and feeling absolutely desperate for John’s cock, he stripped on the way, his tall thin form pale, too thin, and bearing just a few more scars than before. He rifled through the nightstand, and found a tube of lubricant. He lay on his bed, the fresh scent of the sheets telling him that they were still regularly washed by Mrs. Hudson, as though she knew he’d need them again. He drenched his fingers in lubricant and started to open himself up, letting one of his bony fingers circle his tight hole, neglected from years of disuse, while his other hand began to stroke himself. He groaned loudly as he pressed the first finger into himself, hoping his wanton noises would entice John to come looking.

“Thought you said the bedroom was too far,” grumbled John, naked as he stepped into the bedroom and took in the sight. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured, quickly coming to bed and crawling over him.

“Needed the lube. Too far to go back,” Sherlock muttered, spreading his legs open wider for John to settle in between them, while adding a second finger with growled whimper to stretch himself better for John. Not too wide, though, he need the tangible reminder, the physical burn tomorrow, so he knew it was more than just his imagination. That damned imagination that had kept him sustained during his death, but lead to the crushing realisation in the mornings that he’d only dreamt John up once again.

John kissed him deeply, running his hands over Sherlock’s chest. Fresh scars reminded him of Sherlock’s death, of the previous years, of… Seb. He knelt back and rubbed his face in his hands. Should he really be doing this when Sebastian hadn’t even left yet?

Sherlock saw the hesitation in John’s eyes, and panicked momentarily; was John having second thoughts about him? He thought he’d been in the clear, but perhaps not; was he still at risk of losing John to Moran? Sherlock’s heart clenched at the thought, his heart dropped and his chest hollowed out in mere moments. Maybe it was just a matter of bringing John back into the moment. But how?

He sat up and threaded his fingers through John’s hair, “I’ve missed you, John, dreamt about you when the nights were dark and cold, when I was undercover, and Moriarty’s men offered me _anything_ to help me sleep. But it was you that kept me right.”

Sherlock pretended to misread the situation; no use in adding to John’s guilt. “I want this, I’ve wanted this for years, for this to mean more between us than a casual shag, to feel the warmth of true and genuine affection between us. To feel loved, cherished. I promise you John, there is nothing about this you need feel guilty about. I am not vulnerable, I am not compromised, I am nothing more than a man eager and enthusiastically willing to finally, after years of being wretchedly torn apart, embrace the man I love.”

“Sherlock,” John breathed, staggered by the declaration and the truth in his eyes. He kissed him deeply, passionately, feeling his heartbeat between them.

“John,” Sherlock nearly begged, “I need to feel you. I need to know this is real, something tangible, something I wake up in the morning and feel. Please, John, I want you inside me.”

John groaned and tugged Sherlock’s hand free, lining up. “Ready for me?”

“Please, yes,” Sherlock whined, pulling his own knees back with his hands. He need all of John, everything he could get of the man’s frankly enormous cock. “Hard, make me feel it.”

John kissed him again as he pressed into him, feeling Sherlock stretch around him as he tried to give him time to adjust.

Sherlock felt the sting as John’s cock opened him wide; he’d forgotten how wonderful, how huge John felt inside him and appreciated John’s quiet moment to allow him to accommodate. It was spectacular, having John inside him, to know that it was what John wanted, the two of them together, in every sense of the word, in every way possible was intoxicating. After this, he didn’t think it would be possible to ever let John go again.

John groaned. “So tight,” he whispered.

“It’s been so long,” Sherlock admitted in the same low voice, “So long since you had me last.”

“You fit me so well,” John  panted, nibbling on his throat.

“Harder,” Sherlock requested with a moan. John was being sweet and considerate and soft, but Sherlock need vigour, passion, and a hint of pain.

Nodding, John started to drive into him, groaning with need, pinning Sherlock’s wrists. It was even better then he remembered.

Sherlock wrapped his legs around John’s waist, and let John’s pummelling thrusts push grunts, moans and whines from his throat. He remembered how John liked to hear him; like to know that he could make Sherlock make such primal, lustful noises, instead of his normal self-assured intellect.

He closed his eyes under the pleasure, then stopped himself. He’d spent too many nights, eyes closed and imagining John; this time, he opened them, watching John’s desire flit across his face, the way damp tendrils of hair curled from his temple, the storm in his eyes threatening to drown Sherlock in their intensity.

John groaned as Sherlock watched him. “Gorgeous,” he muttered, taking in the those verdigris eyes. It was almost as if no time had passed at all, wordless cries falling from Sherlock’s lips, his body surrendering to John. He ached with desire, his orgasm already sizzling close as he tried to hold on and make this last just a little longer.

He could feel John tremble above him, so close to his release, and holding out for Sherlock’s sake. Sherlock knew he wouldn't come untouched and that giving John a second task would hold him at bay, even if only momentarily. “Touch me,” Sherlock begged breathlessly, almost adding the word ‘Please,’ but remembering the effect the word had on John when it echoed in his deep voice, and opted to just repeat, “Touch me.”

Without hesitation, John took Sherlock’s cock in hand. He leaned down to nibble at his skin, still keeping his wrists pinned with one hand as if afraid that Sherlock would simply vanish.

The change in angle seemed to relieve John of some of his aching need, whereas Sherlock was vaulted into euphoria, John dragging over his prostate and slickly pumping his cock. “Fuck, John,” Sherlock growled, “Mine. My John.” The heat welled up inside him, pleasure rippling down every nerve, as it travelled down from his fingers and toes and head to the centre of him, pooling low, then rising, and finally, erupting, pleasure exploding, then seeping back over him, like lava coating his senses with ecstasy.

With a small cry of his own, John came as Sherlock clamped tight around him. He moaned as his lover seemed to milk every ounce of pleasure from him, until he collapsed, boneless, on Sherlock’s chest, softly mewling with pleasure.

Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s hair, chest heaving, eyes half lidded as he categorised all the new sensations, the new information John had given him. He wasn’t sure, if after years of being without, he ever wanted to let John go. Well, eventually he’d have cases, experiments, and it would be terribly inconvenient for him to still be attached to John. But right now? Right now, he didn’t want to move.

John very quickly dozed off in Sherlock’s arms, just needing to be here.

Disappearing into his mind palace, Sherlock was content not to move, and quite without his permission, he too, fell asleep.


	5. Truth & Consequences

Seb spent the evening getting ready to leave. He packed a duffel of the only things he would absolutely need. A few changes of clothes, hygiene products, what was left of his medications, and a handheld entertainment device, complete with holo-projection. He had a nutritional replicator, waste disposal, an oxygen supply and most of the other essentials already on board. Ophelia climbed over him with glee as he packed, and he tried to distance himself from any emotion regarding her.

He was failing miserably.

He took her into the holodeck control room as he programmed it. He’d told John he’d be available by holodeck whenever Phee would need him and he’d only partially lied. He built an AI version of himself, or rather, built on the version Jim already had in the system. He allowed the AI memory retention, so that it could remember previous conversations with Phee, disabled some of the features Jim preferred, and added in his own emotions and love for his daughter. He also added a macro for each session to be recorded and sent to his handheld, so that if he were still capable, he could see the conversation; see how his daughter was doing.

He didn’t have high hopes for his own longevity, but if he programmed the holodeck AI correctly, he could die in a week and it would be years before anyone figured it out. Besides, this altered, problem-free version of himself was far better than his actual self and Phee deserved nothing but the best.

When he came out of the holodeck, it was close to ten at night and John still wasn’t back yet. There was a deep chasm of loss breaking open inside him; he knew where John was and undoubtedly why he hadn’t yet returned. Though he’d wanted to sleep with Phee in the hammock one last time, he was concerned he might hurt her if he went catatonic. Instead, he read her stories and sang to her until she fell asleep in his arms, and he laid her softly in her crib.

He pulled the locket John had given him out of his pocket. It was beautiful, thoughtful, and delicate. And it really wasn’t made for him. He had a collection of photos on his handheld of Phee, and he took a moment to rifle through and find a decent picture of himself instead. He re-programmed the locket, so that lieu of just Phee, there was a picture of he and Phee cuddling together. He had Spyder wrap the locket, with instructions that Phee was to receive it as a gift on her first birthday.

Seb swore, tears forming in his eyes as he realised he wouldn’t even get that. He knew John would leave him eventually and that he’d get custody of Phee. But he didn’t expect that John would take them someplace he could never go, didn’t expect Sherlock- _fucking_ -Holmes to return and take his entire family away in one fell swoop. He’d all of three days to adjust. And his heart was breaking with everything he’d miss, all the moments in Phee’s life; in trying to contain himself, instead redirected his anger at Holmes, who would get all the moments. He’d get her first words, her first steps, school and books and grades and he hated Holmes for everything the man had taken from him.

Seb changed Spyder’s alerts. Ophelia was asleep and if he escaped now, John wouldn’t need to be bothered or called home until she awoke. He had no idea what to do with his anger, his pain, other than how Jim would have handled it for him. And so, as he had the night before, he called up recordings Jim had made of them; this time of beatings made in Holmes’ name. Perhaps he could cauterise the pain that way; replace his current feelings with the pain of the past. Something physical he could embrace before dissociating, instead of this internal anguish that refused to leave him.

He made through more of the recordings tonight than he had the night before, but perhaps it was just because the pain his memory was sending through his body was a welcome, wanted distraction. He felt his flesh flay open, he felt blood pour down his back, he felt the light touch of the scalpel before the stripes of skin were peeled back, and finally, between his own hitched, muffled screams on the screen and Jim’s cursing Holmes’ name, the pain overwhelmed him and he drifted away, feeling light and soft and pain-free.

-o-

It was the wee hours of the morning when John made it guiltily back. He was unsurprised this time to find that Seb had been watching the recordings. He shut it off and told Spyder he wasn't allowed to access them again, then curled up with Seb, the guilt tearing at his heart like a wild creature.

However, it wasn’t until the late hours of the afternoon that Seb finally returned to himself. In the slow moments it took for him to awaken, he saw Phee in the crib near the bed and felt John cuddling up close. For just a second, Seb felt at home, like everything had been a dream, that John was his, that John loved him, that they were a family, happy again.

And in a split second, Seb smelled John’s hair, the scent unfamiliar, and he jolted away from John like he’d been burned. John’d showered at Holmes’ and Seb wasn’t sure what was worse; the scent of Holmes’ shampoo or the scent of sex John clearly tried to wash off before coming home. He escaped out the door, breathing hard, angry, heartbroken and aching.

John woke with a start at Seb’s movement. He gave him a few moments before following him out of the room. “Seb.”

“What?!” Seb snapped, furious.

John had faced down plenty of dangers in his life without much hesitation, but now he shrunk back, knowing he’d broken things irrevocably and hoping that Seb wouldn’t fall in again with someone as cruel as Jim had been. He knew he’d broken Seb’s heart and that knowledge haunted him; even now if anything happened to Seb he’d never be able to forgive himself.

“Well?” Seb demanded, waiting for John to say something, _anything_.

“I… I’m sorry. And… I hope you don’t hate me, but if you do, I’ll understand.”

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?” Seb fought back, “After a year and a half, that’s all I fucking get? Christ, even Jim- _fucking_ -Moriarty gave me more notice than you did.” Seb turned to the computer terminal in the hall, and started to type frantically.  

“I’m not good at this stuff. What do you want me to say? I told you what you meant to me. I tried hard to make a home for us. I wanted you to be happy and I still want that.”

“Yeah, I was a fucking distraction on your way back to Holmes. I’m fucking useless as a partner, as a parent, and you’ll gladly take my daughter from me, because god fucking knows I can’t be trusted. Happy? You don’t fucking care if I’m happy or not. All you care is that your precious detective is back and you’ve tossed me out into the skip to make way for him,” Seb roared, finally letting all the anger he’d left unsaid come spilling out.

“Do you want to take Phee?” asked John. “She’s your daughter too.”

“And where the hell does that leave me? Am I explaining to her why Daddy ditched both of us for some arsehole who he hated for two years prior? Or am I the fucking nanny, relegated to babysitting while you and your fucking boyfriend traipse off on your little cases? Didn’t you already agree that I’m a shit parent? You certainly didn’t disagree,” Seb snarled, and continued with barely stopping, “Amazing, isn’t it, John? You were roommates with Holmes for a year and a half, fucked him half a dozen times, then he died, and you hated him for it for almost three years for leaving you behind. But you’ve been with me a year and a half, had a fucking kid with me, and suddenly you’ve ditched me and are fucking him within three goddamned days?”

The computer beeped at him again and Seb cursed. “And why the fuck can I not access my own damned recordings?!”

“Because I told Spyder not to. You don’t need it. You don’t need Jim, you don’t need me. You’re your own man.” Phee started crying at the raised voices.

“You don’t get to make those decisions for me. You have no clue what I need, or when I need it,” Seb growled lowly, “You have chosen to leave. You have no fucking say over anything I do. Not anymore. And if I want to remember when I only had to deal with physical pain, and not emotional, then I’ll damn well do it.” Seb pointed to the computer, “I’m going to get Phee. You’ll give me access to my own fucking files by the time I get back. Do you understand me?”

John sighed and went to the computer. He scrubbed his face in his hands as Seb came back out. “Do you want me to stay?”

Seb kept his voice low and calm as to not upset Phee, “Why the fuck would I want that? You have absolutely no interest in me, nor have you ever loved me. Did you give me my access back?”

“If I had no interest in you I never would have stayed in the first place. Yes I did.”

“Didn’t say ‘had,’ now did I?” Seb sniped, “I knew I was nothing more than a goddamned replacement; but fuck if I didn’t think I meant more to you than instant fucking abandonment. If there were any way I could convince myself I’d be a better parent to Phee than you, I’d take her in a heartbeat. But I’m not that stupid, and I’m not that selfish. I want what’s best for her, regardless of what an arsehole you turned out to be as a partner. Because as much as I want to hate you right now, you’re still going to be a better father and I won’t deny my daughter that. But I don’t want you having any fucking delusions - you’ve caused me just as much pain as Jim ever did.”

“I know. And I regret it. For what it’s worth I did and do care about you.” He couldn’t do anything under Seb’s rage and he knew he deserved every bit of it.

“Do? No, you feel fucking guilty, that’s all you feel. You think I can’t tell you fucked Holmes last night?” Seb kept his voice level as he bounced Phee on his hip. “You are going to take Phee. I am going to pack my ship. I will be back to say goodbye and to show you how to access the holo-program I’ve made for her. You will never fucking contact me again, unless it is directly related to our daughter. Is that all perfectly clear?”

“Yes, Sebastian,” he said quietly.

“Good. I will return to the flat sometime this evening and I’ll have Spyder hail you. Don’t you dare bring Holmes into this flat or I’ll fucking shoot him, and I won’t miss this time.”

“He’ll never come here.” He gathered his daughter and kissed the top of her head.

“Right, I imagine I’m far too beneath him to bother with,” Seb answered caustically. “I’m used to not being anyone’s first choice. I’ll be gone by tonight; you won’t have to think of me ever again.”

“I’ll think of you every day,” said John, honestly, watching him go, heart aching, wondering how the hell Phee would take not having her Pattri around.

“Yeah, regrets don’t count,” Seb answered coldly, just before the transporter took him to his ship.

John thought about taking Phee into the garden. Instead he sat with her near the sofa and played with her. Somehow he didn’t think he could face the garden again.

-o-

It might have taken only four hours to install the newly designed dual atmosphere sniper rifle, but Seb added an extra hour working through the tears in his eyes. He hated leaving Phee, with all his heart he wished he was enough for her, but he knew he’d never be. He hoped the AI would be enough to make sure she knew how he loved her.

-o-

Sherlock looked up at John, freshly transported with a sullen look, his daughter in one hand and her bag in the other. “You didn’t discuss anything with him, did you?” Sherlock sighed, recognising the look of guilt on John’s face. “Where will you want her to stay?” he asked, figuring now was as good as time as any to figure out exactly how the baby would fit into their lives.

“She can have my old room,” said John, heart still heavy.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Sherlock asked cautiously. “I wouldn’t ask you to move, if you feel she is better at your flat, I can understand.” He didn’t totally understand, but he knew children were creatures of habit and that Ophelia might prefer her home to his.

“That was my home with Seb. This is home with you. I’m mostly keeping it for the holodeck, Seb’s going to stay in touch with her there.”

“You seem upset,” Sherlock noted. And if he could tell, he was quite certain John was distraught.

“He thinks he meant nothing to me. I hurt him worse than Jim ever did. So yes, I'm upset with myself.”

Sherlock was quiet for a while, as he processed John’s answer. He had plenty of acquaintances with whom he was less fond of than John, yet they were never upset with him for feeling so. Granted, he hadn’t a child with any of them, but even if he had - he can’t imagine Lestrade bemoaning being heartbroken if they’d accidentally sired a child, and Sherlock stayed with John.

John felt guilty, that much was obvious. John wanted to be with him, so then why did he feel guilty for not wanting to be with Seb? Or perhaps he’d done something, or not done something, to drive Seb away?

Sherlock couldn’t entirely tell, so he tried, “Do you want to talk about it?” That was something people in relationships did, he was sure. He loved John, and even if he didn’t understand he’d be willing to listen, to try and soothe John’s distress.

“Not sure it would help.” John bounced his daughter. “I just hope I didn't ruin his life all over again.”

“He’s a grown man, he’s responsible for his own life,” Sherlock tried to reassure him. “Just as you are responsible for yours. And, now,” he motioned to Ophelia, “hers. Would you like me to hold her while you ready her room?”

John nodded. “That's fine. Do you want to take her down to Mrs. Hudson?”

“No. If she’s to live here, she’d best learn who I am,” Sherlock insisted, holding his arms out.

John gave a nod and passed Phee over. She gave him a look, then leaned against his shoulder, seemingly content. It gave John a spark of hope.

-o-

“No! Want gween! Gween!” Ophelia yelled at Sherlock, actively trying to take off her pants and escape as he put them on.

“The green slacks are dirty,” Sherlock tried to reason with her, “Daddy picked out the blue ones especially for your visit with your Pattri today.”

“Pattri?” Ophelia asked happily, forgetting her pants. “Pattri? Daddy and Phee and Lock and Pattri?”

“Lock isn’t coming,” said John, scooping her up. “Mostly going to be you and your Pattri.”

“Want Lock!” Ophelia demanded, trying to reach out to Sherlock and nearly falling out of John’s arms.

“Now, Ophelia,” Sherlock said, “You go with Daddy and when you get back I’ll take you to the beehives?”

“Bzzzzz” Ophelia grinned, “Bzzzzz now?”

“Buzz after,” said John, “come on.” He got her pants on, straightened her out and carried her to the transporter.

Ophelia squealed upon seeing the flat; she’d come to associate it with fun and with Pattri and she struggled to be put down so that she could run around.

He put her down and led the way to the holodeck. “Come on Ophelia, your Pattri is going to want to see you.”

Phee ran excitedly to the room and spun in circles while John called up the number Seb had given him.

In just a few moments, the holodeck transformed into a traditional Terran playground, and Seb materialised in front of Phee. He knelt down, to catch Phee as she ran into his arms.

“Pattri!” she cried out gleefully.

“Ophelia, my love, you are getting so big,” Seb held her close, “May I get kisses?”

Phee smiled and kissed his nose and in turn he peppered her whole face with kisses while she laughed hysterically. Finally, through gasped giggles, she said “Stop! ”

Seb pulled back, “Okay. No more kisses unless you ask for more. Do you want to swing?”

Phee shuffled down and ran to the swings. Seb looked at John and acknowledged him with a nod. “Thank you for bringing her,” he said stiffly.

“Of course. She's learning fast.”

Seb turned away from him and went to push Phee on the swings. He played with her, chasing her around the playground, coaxing her down the slide while he waited at the bottom and then, like at the end of every visit, they sat in the grass with juice and a snack.

Seb asked about her favourites, today they were green, bananas, and Scout, her stuffed animal. She sat on his lap, asking about the different scars on his arms and he lied, making up silly stories about dragons or the dangers of not listening his parents, as though he had any to listen to. Finally, their time was up, and Seb picked her up and carried her over to John.

“Same time, next week?” he checked with John, as he hugged Phee close.

“We’ll be here, I promise.”

Seb looked to the girl in his arms, “Can Pattri get a kiss?”

Ophelia leaned in with pursed lips and gave him a big kiss.

“I love you,” he told her as he passed her off to John.

“Luh oo!” she exclaimed back; it was the first time she’d said it back to him, and he broke out into a big smile.

Seb waved goodbye until he dematerialised with the program.

“You see Pattri again next week dear, let’s go home.”

-o-

Nearly eight hours later, in another galaxy entirely, Seb waited anxiously at the bar for his handheld to chime. He hadn’t missed a single minute of the video feeds, watching them over and over again at times and he had a file for his favourite moments; like when she first walked to him, or called him Pattri.

He watched the entire hour’s feed, an unpleasant pain jolted through him at the sight of John, but thankfully he appeared for only a minute or two the entire time. Just as his AI counterpoint had, he beamed when she said she loved him, and instantly saved moment to his file. He’d watch it again later, and probably add in some of the moments when he was making up stories to tell her about his scars. She didn’t judge him, she didn’t look away or whisper about it, she just asked. And yes, she was far too young to know the truth, but still, her relative innocence in asking about them was refreshing.

He finished off his drink and signalled to the bartender that he’d like another.

“My, you’re awfully far away from home, aren’t you?”

The man’s voice behind him sent his blood running cold and yet, like a hungry dog hearing a bell, his cock started to thicken.

He sat at the bar beside Seb, and Seb ignored him for a moment, holding his glass up to the bartender to refill as he came by.

Seb tipped his glass towards him in a silent toast, then took a sip. He turned and nodded his head, “Boss.”

Jim Moriarty smiled predatorily, eyes still black and dead as always.

“My dear Sebby. Did you miss me?”


End file.
